


Old Ones Feel Young

by The_Sheriff



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Pack Bonding, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 12:05:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Sheriff/pseuds/The_Sheriff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stiles, for the last time, why are you in my house?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Ones Feel Young

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever Teen Wolf fic – I got sucked into the fandom and I love it!!

“Now that you have a _proper_ house, with, like, a _yard_ and stuff, it means we can _do stuff_ , like pack meetings that aren’t in abandoned buildings, and group baking sessions, and _oh my god Derek you have to get a pool then we can have pool parties how awesome would that be?_ ”  
“Stiles, for the last time, _why_ are you in my house?”  
“Because Scott’s with Allison and you sent your betas on some stupid patrol and let’s be honest I’m more scared of Lydia than of you, so …”  
Derek raises his eyebrows.  
“ _We could have a barbecue_! We are _so_ having a barbecue oh my god we can just get one of those disposable things and then you wouldn’t even have to clear up-” Stiles stops, mouth gaping at the glare Derek is firing his way. “ _I_ wouldn’t even have to clear up?”  
“Better.”  
“So is that a yes?”  
“No.”  
“It’s totally a yes, _come on_ it’s a yes. I can see it in your eyes. There’s nothing you want more than to have your dumb teenage pack invade your lovely new home for an evening- on that note your new home is _lovely_ , like, is this a _throw_ on your couch? And _that_ thing, what even is that thing?”  
“It’s decorative.”  
“Alright, mister big bad interior designer-” Derek yanks the throw from the couch and smirks as Stiles thumps to the ground with a startled yelp. Stiles huffs, limbs flailing as he struggles to get up, feet tangled, mouth working itself around the beginnings of words he’s too mad to start. “You,” he manages breathlessly, aiming a finger at Derek’s stupidly defined chest, “ _suck_.”

o*o*o

Somehow, and Stiles hasn’t the faintest clue how he did it, they end up at Target, with Derek silently pushing the cart and trying desperately to look vaguely homicidal because, wow, the cart really doesn’t do much for his image. It doesn’t work. He just ends up looking like a stressed out, stay-at-home dad with three kids under five at home and an extortionate mortgage. Stiles doesn’t refrain from telling him so. Derek doesn’t refrain from detailing his teeth ripping into Stiles’ throat. Stiles just laughs, albeit slightly hysterically, and the soccer mom reaching for the cereal gathers up her children and speeds away down the aisle, shooting them a furtive look.  
“That’s the sort of thing that got you on the wanted list in the _first_ place,” Stiles scolds as if he’s talking to a four year old.  
“Your _idiocy_ got me on the wanted list,” Derek spits between clenched teeth.  
“Eh, but I’m pretty sure your eyebrows had something to do with it, man, they just _scream_ I’ve-got-a-toddler-tied-up-in-my-basement.”  
“I’m going to make _you_ scream in a minute.”  
“ _Derek!_ ” Stiles gasps, mocking. “Was that a _proposition_?” Derek rolls his eyes so hard Stiles thinks they’ll get stuck like that, and he’s too busy snickering at the thought to notice Derek’s hand moving to smack him upside the head. He squawks indignantly.  
“Stiles?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Shut up.”

o*o*o

So they’re back at the house, and Stiles has texted everyone to arrive by seven, and he _knows_ Derek’s kind of grudgingly looking forward to it, though he wouldn’t admit it if there were claws at his throat, because although he playfully swipes at Stiles’ phone a couple of times, he doesn’t try nearly as hard as he could have to prevent the word from getting out: _bbq @ dereks place 7pm, alphas orders, be there or be doggy chow :)_

“Right, so now we gotta prepare.” Derek opens his mouth, but Stiles ploughs on regardless. “And _you_ ’re gonna help me because you’re the _host_ , ergo it’s _you_ r fault if everyone turns up and there’s no food, and Isaac will make his puppy eyes at _you_. It’s in your best interests really.” Stiles grins broadly as Derek sighs and hauls himself off the couch, and Derek doesn’t know why he bothers sometimes.

The thing is, Stiles is weirdly squeamish about the meat, so they end up with Derek elbow deep in raw mince while Stiles has planted himself firmly at the other end of the kitchen, chopping salad, with Derek looking up roughly every seven seconds because, honestly, that boy is far too jittery to be allowed anywhere _near_ a knife and Derek feels _responsible_ , somehow.

Derek pats the meat into burger shapes while Stiles arranges condiments on a tray, and the silence is almost _companionable_ until Stiles flicks a bit of carrot at Derek’s head, barely supressing a snort as Derek bares his teeth before gripping the edge of the bowl tightly, closing his eyes, and sucking in a deep breath. He opens his eyes as he lets it out, raising a sardonic eyebrow at Stiles, who’d thought it funny to reposition himself approximately two inches from Derek’s face.  
“I could hear _and_ smell _and_ feel you – what part of that did you think would be a surprise?” Stiles simply shrugs, the glint in his eye barely a warning before he darts forward and licks at Derek’s face. He backs off then, watching closely as Derek stands stock still for a long moment before lifting his arm to slowly wipe his cheek on the sleeve of his Henley with as much dignity as he can muster, which is a fairly impressive amount, in Stiles’ opinion. He blinks once, twice, then turns back to his burgers like nothing happened. Stiles gapes, but upon noticing the claws digging into the patties of meat, he quickly follows Derek’s lead, heading back over to his salad. Nothing can stop him from muttering “ _one all, Hale_ ”under his breath, though, and if he hadn’t been concentrating so hard on not chopping his twitchy fingers off, he would have noticed Derek’s answering smirk.

o*o*o

Cora arrives with Lydia, because apparently that’s a _thing_ now – who knew? Not Derek, that’s for sure, and he doesn’t know how he feels about it until he catches the gooey look in Cora’s eyes as she catches Lydia’s, and, well, it could be worse – it could be _Jackson_.

Jackson arrives with Danny and Ethan, which is still weird for everyone except Danny, and Jackson doesn’t make a show of hiding it, though that’s probably more to do with having to share a car with the chokingly in-love vibes they emit that even the _humans_ can sense.

Isaac emerges from his room, where he’d apparently been all along, unbeknownst to Stiles, yet obviously not unbeknownst to Derek, who Stiles decides was probably trying to hog his company all to himself, and not to protect Isaac from Stiles’ manic preparations.

Scott and Allison ride up on his bike, and Erica and Boyd swing themselves gracefully over the back fence which divides the surprisingly spacious yard from the forest beyond. Cora gives Erica a high-five as Boyd picks leaves out of her hair, and Stiles doesn’t even want to _ask_.

They convene out the back where Stiles has set up the myriad of disposable barbecues he’d seen fit to buy. Derek nearly has a hernia when he starts to wave around tongs ‘he didn’t realise were hot’ and bans him from coming anywhere near the flames. Which is effectively claiming cooking duties for himself, because the kids came here for free food and a good time, and he doesn’t really trust them not to serve up raw meat anyway. Isaac calls him Daddy and they all join in, taking pictures of him glaring at the sausages. Cora’s grabs an apron from god knows where with _I like it spicy_ written on the front and tries to wrestle it over his head. It takes a distraction from Erica and both Boyd and Isaac holding him down for her to manage. Derek obliges for long enough for her to snap a picture with a delighted laugh and the promise of future blackmail before ripping it off, balling it up, and firing it at Stiles’ unsuspecting head.

“ _Hey!_ I had absolutely _nothing_ to do with that!” he yells, indignant, and Derek just shakes his head.  
“This whole thing was your idea, dumbass.”  
“Well _you agreed to it_ because you _know_ my ideas are awesome.”  
“Or just because he doesn’t know how to say no to you,” Erica interjects sweetly. Stiles blinks at her. Derek goes red. Stiles blinks at _him_.  
“Are you blushing? Oh my god you totally are, you’re _blushing_! Cora, you need a picture of _this_!” but Cora just looks at Stiles funny and makes some sort of eyebrow gesture at Derek, and wow, those Hales must have some kind of secret eyebrow code drilled into them at birth, because it’s completely out of the realm of what Stiles could possibly use his eyebrows to communicate. He settles for simply lifting one of his own. “Am I missing something here?”

Lydia sighs loudly and stomps over to the barbecue. “Yes. You,” and she points a perfectly manicured nail at Stiles, “are an idiot. And _you_ ,” it shifts to Derek, “I don’t even have words to describe. Also you should go get more root beers from the fridge.” She grabs the utensils out of Derek’s hands and shoves him towards the house. Cora looks on in awe as Derek backs slowly away before turning tail and legging it inside. Lydia smirks. “What are you waiting for?” She narrows her eyes at Stiles. “Go get ‘im.” Stiles opens and closes his mouth a few times before giving up and following Derek at a more dignified pace, muttering about the correlation between strawberry blonde hair and brain damage.

When he gets inside, Derek’s trying to climb into the fridge. Despite his super senses, he startles when Stiles steps into the room, banging his head and wincing.  
“I um … root beers.” He says, wincing again.  
“Right,” Stiles agrees easily, taking a few casual steps towards him. Derek’s eyes widen. He looks like he wants to crawl back into the fridge. Stiles stalks forward, and almost predatory grin on his face, and Derek can’t go anywhere, backed against the wall. The parallels here are amazing and hilarious and Stiles would comment on them, but he’s far too busy staring at his target. His tongue flashes over his lips, wetting them slightly. Derek mirrors the action. One of them whines high in the back of their throats. Derek would like to think it’s Stiles’’, because never would such an undignified sound escape his own lips. Stiles thinks it’s Derek because, hello, _dog_. Neither of them really cares, and when their lips crash together, it’s mutual, Derek surging off the wall to meet Stiles halfway. It’s Derek’s grin that’s predatory as he flips them round, slamming Stiles into the wall, all teeth and hot breath.  Stiles can’t help but feel smug as he allows Derek’s tongue to plough into his mouth, hands fluttering ineffectively over his back, his arms, and ultimately settling in his hair so he can tug Derek closer every time he pulls away to take a breath. Stiles could do this forever.

Derek freezes, whips his head round, takes a long, deliberate _sniff_. Stiles hardly notices from where’s he’s sucking on Derek’s neck. “Shit,” Derek mutters, grabbing Stiles’ wrist and pulling him to the door. He lets go as soon as they’re outside, darting to the barbecue where something is definitely burning. His eyebrows pull together as he sees the letters spelt out in barbecue sauce on top of the blackening burgers. CONGRATS ON THE SEX.  
“We didn’t have a cake, so …” Scott says happily as Stiles reaches over for a high five. Derek glares. Stiles cackles.  
“Actually, it’s a bit pre-emptive …”  
“We _know_ , Stiles.” Erica rolls her eyes. “We heard everything.” Derek scoops Stiles over his shoulder. Stiles splutters, but is far too distracted by Derek’s ridiculous biceps to complain. He leers at everyone upside down.  
“You have three minutes to clear up this shit and clear out of my house.” Derek says. Stiles shivers.

Three minutes later, Stiles is naked, laying on Derek’s bed with his boxers round his knees, chest painted with his own come, fingers absent-mindedly tracing the red marks on his chest. He can hear Derek cursing in the bathroom, clattering around for lube and condoms. So he started a little early –sue him.


End file.
